Let Me In
by magic-pages
Summary: One event, one moment exposes some of his weakness, and they both see it as an opportunity to pry him open even farther. House/Wilson and a bit more one-sided House/Cameron.
1. Chapter 1

He leaned over the patient, her breath heating his temple in little puffs as he slid the needle into the skin of her upper arm. He felt her muscles tense, and felt compelled, somewhere in the empty back room of this consciousness, to say something.

"I'm sorry, I should have told you that it's gonna hurt."

'I don't like it' she muttered as a small tear pooled in her eye and spilled, staining her cheek with black.

"All right, all done." He tossed the syringe in the trash and swabbed the needle's point of entrance with a sticky cotton ball.

She sniffed and wiped her eye, which spread the makeup even further.

"Which would you like, Batman, or Dora?"

He held out a box of band-aids, a slightly tired expression in his blue eyes.

'Neither, thanks, I think I might leave it open to the air.'

"Okay then. It shouldn't hurt at all afterwards. If you feel the need to start popping T-3's or Vicodin(he patted his pocket) come back in. But let's hope nothing happens."

'Because you don't want me back?'

"Well put." He flicked his focus back from the cold tap to the cupboard doorframe, not even observing her leave. As soon as the door clicked shut, he pulled the small canister out of his blazer pocket and yanked off the lid, popping three of the delicious pills into his mouth, and leaning against the wall for support. He could feel sympathies with the rabid racoons that chewed their limbs off because it let them sleep 8 hours at night. He would aim for 10 hours, but it would depend on the method of amputation.

He looked at his watch, and was moderately pleased to see that the long hand matched up at his favourite location, the top of the face. This meant that it was 3:00, and that his afternoon 'hanging out' with constipated teenagers and forty-somethings looking for counselling over their recent switch to veganism, was, guess what, finished! He'd held many face muscles straight over the recent young woman who cried over her Hep A vaccination, and now he could let them go as slack as possible during an evening of General Hospital and a nearly-full bottle of whisky. Pushing open the exam room door, his eyes met another's.

"Greetings, Dr. Cameron,"

She looked flustered, strands of hair stuck to her face.

' I-'

"I'm handsome? Aw shucks, but it won't work out. I'll bore you."

He patted her on the head in a fatherly way and began to limp down the hall.

'I'm sorry.'

His ears just caught the low, sweet tone of her voice, and he turned around, his brow furrowed.

"Sorry for what?"

Her mouth opened, then closed. 'There's a call for you in the staff room.'

"Sounds quite heart-wrenching already. Thanks for being there for me", he deadpanned.

His abdominal muscles, slightly buried but still existent, tightened slightly as he headed towards the pebbled glass of the staff room door. The phone was laying belly-up on the table, an orange light on the unit blinking.

"Hello?"

'Hello, Mr. House?'

He cleared his throat. "It is Dr. House, but yes, that's me."

'This is the South Carolina county coroner calling. Are you the son of Mrs. Blythe and Mr. John House?'

He nodded, then muttered yes.

'I'm sorry sir, they've been in an accident. I'm afraid that they are both dead. We will need you to come and identify them'. A pause.

'I'm sorry.'

"Stop", House mumbled.

'Pardon, sir?'

"Saying sorry, it's starting to sound bland."

And he needed to stop talking, beacuse a foreign feeling was spreading through his throat.

He saw her once more before he left, stacking files. She looked up as he passed, and it hurt his eyes, because hers were red-rimmed.

He lay, spread-eagled on the duvet, counting the uneven pieces of ceiling stucco. The burning liquor and the soft background violins on the television combined to lull him into a type of stupor, one where many of these new-fangled emotions waved at him as they left.

A few questions stayed behind. Why were his parents dead? Had God smite him for not replying to any of their Christmas letters? Should he go and 'identify them'? Or, using his favourite method, attempt to erase the memory completely? It made him numb and his eyes sting, which couldn't be a good thing.

And then there was her. How did she have any idea what had happened? Why was she concerned? And why did he give a crap about her being concerned? He blindly reached for his pill bottle on the nightstand. and when his fingers didn't reach the desired item, he sighed brokenly, his leg pounding like hell. Heaving himself off the bed, he limped towards the kitchen. He opened the closest cupboard to reveal a small army of orange pill bottles. He was just peeling the lid off of one when the phone rang shrilly, sending a torrent of small white pills raining onto the cold tile floor. Muttering various obscenities, he squinted at the caller ID, which he conveniently, had acquired free with this phone. In a way it let him select who he wished to talk to and who for it should simply ring.

Cameron. Why? He let it ring three more times and then picked up.

'Hello'.

"Oh, hi, House, it's Cameron.(he didn't see that one coming.")

She sounded calm, far removed from her scattered state that morning.

'What do you want?'

"I was, uh, just wondering how you were feeling."

As much as he hated to admit it, the sound of her voice stirred something long dormant in him, as much as he tortured her and snapped at her, every baby step she made to him opened a small rind of light, which he attempted to keep shut at all times.

'Positively jolly. My parents died. Did you hear?'

He could almost hear her cringe, and he instantly regretted his comment. There was a three-year silence.

"I know. I'm really sorry."

'Okay, yeah. I know you are.'

"Is there anything I can do?"

'No, not particularly, they've seen all they need to of life.'

"Oh."

He could sense the edge in her voice, the slight hesitation that met his indifference with something far more formidable. It left him wondering whether he could be more understanding, even though it was his problem, not hers.

He cleared his throat,


	2. Chapter 2

...and gathered himself together.

"Thanks for your concern, but I think a few shots should make me feel better. Goodnight, Dr. Cameron."

He hung the phone up in it's base, a small burning feeling in his chest. It wasn't the drink, or the residual pain that winced at him whenever he thought of his mother. It was his abrupt ending of their phone call. It was blaringly obvious that she cared, more specifically, about him. He remembered that she had been crying. Either her cat had been run over by a car, or it was his parents that she was tearing up about. Her desire to reach him was declaring itself like a two-page colour ad in the newspaper, announcing in block lettering that he was the only one that she would ever need. Pretty-sounding in a greeting card.

But he wasn't the one that she called in the evenings, Chase kept her busy every weekend, on hotel beds or in examination rooms, but it was all empty. He was a shell for her, something to fill with whatever she pleased, to return to when she felt particularly lonely. Evenings when she was pining, with her Sauvignon Blanc in a pretty flat, for him.

Thinking of being with her, it sounded really good. Hot and convenient. But he knew that these kinds of connections never stayed glittery for long, they were both flawed, messy people. He would say or do something and she, naive and small and warm, would bruise. However, the more he thought about her, naive and small and warm, he wanted to pick up the phone again, end the exchange differently. Even if he didn't want her prodding into these more raw parts of his life, it meant a lot that she wanted to.

Frankly, she fit quite well into that space. That was what bothered him the most. But it hurt too much to think about, his lead leg having its own personal seizure, the throbbing spot for his parents, for her in his chest, the hot, syrupy feeling in his mouth from the whisky. He pulled his T-shirt off and limped towards the bedroom door, muttering a quick prayer to Jesus or Buddha or whoever wasn't busy when his head found the pillow.

The lights were painful that morning, as he stepped into the hospital, his head throbbing with a steady rhythm like that of his patient's breathing yesterday, when he finally discovered the correct diagnosis. As always.

Hordes of doctors, technicians, professionals in starched clothing passed him, busy on their way to get lab results or make meetings with terminal cancer patients, to throw in the next load of soiled laundry. To cut out an old, dirty heart and sew in a new one. Through this commotion, one that never brought him out of his haze of pain and daily examination of the floor tiles, his father's voice was echoing with every line he stepped on,

"How did this happen? You are a child, Gregory, one with no concept of how you affect people. I hope that you lose your job so that you realize what big holes you've cut in your co-workers lives, simply because you can't pick up your messes. Obviously how I raised you, with the intention of respecting other's authority, has done nothing. Your drugs have taken the throne again."

It was the response that he got when phoning his mother at Christmas, and telling her about the court hearing, and apparently, his Daddy forgot to ask him what he wanted from Santa. House's eyes burned, his soul shriveling with the childishness that his father dealt with him, the way he made all of House's nearly 50 years of life seem like something tiny, something easily understood like a plot from a badly-written soap opera. He hated him, more than he hated reaching into patient's orifices or the mind-numbing pain that came from accidentally rolling over onto his left side in his sleep. When his felt the nerves ripping angrily like a piece of cloth, when the infarction left him with the pain of the back draft, when he was blinded that first time, he cursed it, not because he had no idea how he would survive this for the rest of his life, but how his father would respond to House's coping methods. John House was now dead, and his son discovered that he felt not sadness, but the relief that the Fates had decided he had no more energy left to survive another piercing barb from this elderly man who had helped give him life.

Soon he was at the end of the hallway, and up the elevator, and not surprisingly, felt no better, not even when Cuddy approached, her eyes narrowed with disappointment over something that he had apparently done, and her mauve blouse delightfully low-cut. He listened to her rant about how he had been leaving his sandwiches in patient's rooms, and how that was unprofessional and unhealthy and potentially dangerous for those patients on strictly controlled food intake. There was currently nobody to diagnose, or no one had approached him with a new case, and a few hours in the clinic had not been suggested by the Supreme Being as a way to fill this graciously empty time. But House wasn't bored, he had a mission. He needed to make best use of the time he had been given. It was time to talk with someone. Another man who had long ago concluded that his friend's addictions, issues and absurd coping methods held no ground.

Soft jazz music slid up to House's ears as he opened the oak door, only to find Diana Krall crooning 'The Look of Love' and his friend James Wilson asleep at his desk. Diana had apparently seduced him; Wilson's head was leaning back against his chair, his fingers draped over the armrests and his mouth slightly open. House, being not in the mood for boyish pranks, strode over to the desk and picked up a stack of reference books, dropping them quite loudly on the countertop. Wilson's head snapped up, mumbling and blinking at House, who had settled himself into the chair usually reserved for Wilson's patients.

"Where are all the dying people? Did you save them? You don't usually fall asleep in your office."

Wilson took a moment to answer, rubbing at the corners of his eyes.

"I had a really long procedure this morning, one of my breast-cancer mothers found another tumour in her colon yesterday, so we did an invasive surgery and it turned out to be benign. "

House narrowed his eyes. "It's only 10:30. And how could she 'find' (he made quotations with his fingers) a colon tumour? It's not exactly the kind of thing you discover in the shower."

Wilson sighed and rolled his eyes. "She was having difficulty with her bowel movements, so we did a scan, just in case… wait, why are you suddenly so interested in my patients? If they're not hindering your time with me, or they have no prescriptions for you to steal, you are perfectly content to leave them be. "

House diverted his eyes to the black-rimmed squares of Wilson's pocket planner, each day gasping for air at the sheer amount of daily appointments penned in Wilson's loopy oncologist scrawl.

"My parents died."

The change in Wilson was immediate, he melded from weary doctor to concerned friend, his brown eyes deepening and his frame leaning forward.

"Oh, god, House, I'm sorry."


	3. Chapter 3

"What happened?" Wilson said softly, his hands gripping the desk. "That is, only if you want to tell me, which you don't have to." His eyes were focused on House's, which seemed to be intrigued by the edging of the glass that topped his desk.

"Car crash, yesterday." The fingers kneaded his chair's armrest, the lips became pursed.

Wilson made a motion to get up, the slightest of muscle contractions creating creases in his pressed white shirt. He left his chair and traveled around, then stood beside him, arms outstretched. House snorted at him in a sad, bemused way.

"You look like one of those Ken dolls with the molded arms." Yet he made no motion to reciprocate, so Wilson bent down and wrapped his arms around his friend lightly, his tie pressing against House's heavy blue stubble. He stayed there for only a moment before squeezing slightly and removing his grip.

"Well, that was weird." However, House looked a bit mischievous and a tiny smile cornered his mouth.

Wilson sighed as he sat down. "I'm sorry that I wanted to comfort you. Friends do that sometimes."

"Only ridiculously needy friends. The best ones know what the other wants before they say it."

"Is there anything that you need? Do you want me to talk to Cuddy about giving you some time off? You are entitled to bereavement days." Wilson was searching House, desperate for some sort of response.

"I can talk to momma, I'm a big boy. And yes, I might go home later, but I guess I need something to distract me for now, even clinic hours might work." Something flickered in House's eyes. "But maybe beer and a bad horror movie later this evening might be good."

"Well, maybe I could arrange that." Wilson was unsure what the older man was implying. Certainly House didn't need someone to accompany him on a porn and gore fest, he and his Jack Daniels were good enough at that on their own; but he realized, with a little bit of hesitance, that although his friend wasn't the most gracious host, and knew how to hit all of his nerves with frightening precision, Wilson missed spending time with him. Broken marriages and the poor moisturizing qualities of hotel bath soap had given Wilson reasons to stay at his apartment in the past, and both of them knew that when it was late evening, and they both were slightly inebriated, they enjoyed laughing at lame, off-color jokes and rubbing their eyes after four hours of nonstop play of House's GameCube. These were often Friday evenings, following shortened days where Wilson would avoid revealing any terminal sort of information to his patients, and praying that they would exist for their appointment that coming Monday. He had never wanted to be anywhere else at the time, knowing that House's apartment had been the only true haven for him, and it still was. But now House needed him, instead, and for perhaps only the second or third time, the reason was truly valid. Wilson was willing to abandon most of his hesitation.

He found his pupils wandering to his watch, which indicated another looming appointment, probably with someone else who happened to be dying. He quickly glanced at House, who looked, for once, defeated. For all of the funerals that he had attended from thankful families of patients, and all of the 

news that he had to deliver, he found that he had never been more concerned for anyone than this man, who enjoyed injuring himself simply when he had no pills left.

"House…" Wilson ventured. "I have an appointment in 20 minutes. Do you want to meet for lunch?"

"Will you pay?" House asked unabashedly.

There was barely a sigh in Wilson's voice before he agreed. It took not only his moral compass, but his deep un-seated care for his friend to swipe his credit card on House's behalf, every day, but this day was different.

"Yes, I will."

"Good. " House grasped his cane on the side of the chair and pulled himself up. "Thanks for the show, Jimmy Stewart; we know you're quite the performer. And thanks, for… the hug." House's eyes quickly met Wilson's in a searing glance, wide-eyed freezer-pack blue centering in on the brown. He then opened the door and left.

Wilson had to blink once or twice to remove the irises of those eyes from the retinas of his.


End file.
